The Haunted Fort by Franklin W. Dixon Read Free Book Online Page B

at his legs awakened him.
    â€œCome on,” Joe urged. “Up and at ’em! You’re four hours behind the birds!”
    The heavy youth grumbled and burrowed deeper into his covers.
    â€œBreakfast is ready!” Joe shouted.
    Covers flew up and Chet landed squarely on the floor with two feet.
    After eating, the trio went directly to the gallery. This time no one interfered. They found the remaining fort paintings were as varied in style as they were in views of the impressive fortress.
    Several were painted as if from the middle of Crown Lake; others as if from a nearby mountain. Some were night scenes, others broad daylight. Green and brown colors stood out boldly, and lighting effects were worked with fine brush strokes upon the fort’s stone ledges.
    All the paintings were signed with an interlaced J and D.
    â€œAs I see it,” Frank observed, “there’s a choice of ways in which a painter could leave a clue on canvas.”
    â€œOr in the frame,” Chet added.
    Frank nodded. “But I think the paintings themselves are the best bet. The clue could be a tiny word in a corner or even a symbol. Or”—he pointed to one picture—“it might be where a figure is standing—this Union soldier for instance.”
    â€œAlso,” Joe interposed, “we should keep our eyes open for any unusual color or brush stroke.”
    By noon they had found nothing definite, but all three had kept notes of possible clues. Back in their room, the boys placed tracing paper over the photostat of the Senandaga map and marked the places they wanted to check. Joe then locked the map in his suitcase and put the tracing paper in his pocket. After lunch the Hardys were impatient to begin exploring the fort, but Chet had a suggestion.
    â€œUncle Jim told me there’s a new instructor in sculpture. He’s French, and has definite views on Fort Senandaga. Maybe we should see this René Follette.”
    The Hardys agreed, although they strongly suspected their chum was trying to postpone another visit to the old fort. First, Frank phoned headquarters. No trace of the thief or of last evening’s prowler had turned up. The fingerprints had proved inconclusive.
    The Bayporters headed for the sculpture studio. On the way, they passed Ronnie at his easel. Chet twirled his beret and sang out, “Getting ready for the exhibit?”
    The student sneered. “I’m all set to take first prize. Half the kids here can’t paint a barn door.”
    Chet glanced at the garish orange and purple circles on Ronnie’s canvas. “Rush” was signed at the bottom in large flourishing letters.
    â€œYou wouldn’t understand it.” Ronnie guffawed, then said slyly, “I saw you three coming out of the gallery. Did you give up painting lessons ?”
    â€œNot me,” Chet declared cheerfully.
    â€œHa! I suppose you’re going to enter the exhibit.”
    Chet’s face grew red. The Hardys winked at each other but said nothing. The young detectives moved on.
    As they entered the sculpture workshop, the fresh smell of clay reached their nostrils. Colorful pottery and ceramic figures stood on high tables, as well as several in bronze. A stocky, red-faced man with snapping black eyes was darting among his students. About fifteen boys and girls were standing before long tables, working on both clay and metal sculptures.
    When he saw Chet and the Hardys the instructor beamed. “Come in, come in!” He made a sweeping gesture of welcome. “You are new, n’est ce pas? I am René Follette.”
    The boys explained that they were visiting Millwood as guests. “We’re especially interested in Fort Senandaga,” said Frank. “Could—”
    â€œAh! Magnifique!” the Frenchman broke in dramatically. “I shall tell you the story.” The boys settled down at an empty table by a narrow open window. Follette removed a denim